Rabbi Joseph sat across from Madonna, his hands folded over a worn prayer book.
“Do you know why the Kabbalah water never healed anyone the way it was promised?” he asked softly.
Madonna tilted her head, curious but cautious. “Because people didn’t believe enough? Or because the blessing wasn’t strong enough?”
Rabbi Joseph shook his head. “No. Faith alone cannot overcome poison. The problem is not the blessing, it is the vessel. Rockefeller’s crude oil empire gave the world plastic, and now that same plastic has broken down into invisible shards. Microplastics seep into every bottle, every stream. They are toxic—tiny curses hiding in the water.”
Madonna’s brow furrowed. “So it was never holy water at all?”
“The water itself was pure,” Rabbi Joseph said, “but the container corrupted it. A blessing cannot undo the rot of oil.”
She leaned closer. “So what do we do? Just stop drinking?”
He smiled faintly. “No, we change the vessel. Hemp plastic. Strong, natural, biodegradable. It does not poison, it returns to the earth. If I bless hemp water vessels online—through livestream prayer—millions can drink without fear. A digital blessing for a material world.”
Madonna nodded slowly, absorbing the mix of mysticism and practicality. “So Kabbalah 2.0?” she asked.
Rabbi Joseph chuckled. “Not new Kabbalah. Just the old truth—don’t put holy things in unholy containers.”
Yugo Joe leaned back, watching the drizzle fall against East Vancouver’s sidewalks, and turned to Madonna with a grin.
“Back in the 1970s,” he said, “families used to dream of a vacation home. A little seasonal place. Not extravagant, just somewhere to get away. I think everyone deserves that. A place of rest.”
Madonna raised an eyebrow. “And where exactly are you thinking, Joe? The Hamptons?”
Joe shook his head firmly. “Nope. I don’t want to go anywhere. You’re Canadian like me. We could build something right here in East Van. A beautiful neighborhood where friends gather, where no one’s chasing glamour—just peace.”
Madonna laughed. “And who else are you moving in?”
Joe’s eyes sparkled. “Arnold Schwarzenegger. There’s a Lutheran Church on the corner that would be perfect for him. Strong, solid, historic—just like him. Imagine Arnie walking out on Sunday, shaking hands with the neighbors, maybe grilling sausages in the backyard.”
He paused, picturing it all. “East Vancouver deserves that kind of magic. Not the fake Hollywood kind—just good people, good neighbors, seasonal homes, and a community where even action heroes get to rest.”
Madonna tilted her head, smiling softly. “You know, Joe… you make it sound like heaven with streetlights.”
Madonna leaned back, crossing her arms, her eyes flickering like someone who had heard every compliment, every judgment, a thousand times before.
Yugo Joe:“You think lust is the only language men speak to you. That’s why you wear it like armor. But that’s not what I want. That’s not what my uncle wants either. We’re not here for your body, Madonna—we’re here for your mind.”
She tilted her head, a faint smile playing at her lips, half defense, half curiosity.
Madonna:“My mind? You don’t know how many say that just to get closer.”
Yugo Joe:“I know. But most of them are sycophants, feeding off you, buying and selling your image like perpetual commerce. That’s not love. That’s not even respect. Real love sees you stripped of all that—fame, scandal, money—and still wants you. My uncle believes that. I believe that.”
For the first time in a long while, she didn’t know what to say. The silence between them felt heavier than applause.
Madonna:“So what is it you really want? Another deal? Another photo-op? Another notch on the Madonna story?”
Her tone was sharp, the kind of blade forged from years of people wanting pieces of her, never the whole.
Yugo Joe stepped forward, shaking his head.
Yugo Joe:“That’s just it. Everyone sees you as a story, a product, an empire. They want your body, your brand, your fire—but not you. Not the woman who doubts, who dreams, who gets lonely. Lust is what you give them because you think it’s all they’ll accept.”
Madonna looked away, staring into her wine like it might defend her.
Madonna:“And what makes you different? Men always say that until they get what they want.”
Joe’s uncle finally spoke, his voice low, weathered by years of teaching and disappointment.
Uncle:“Because what we want, Madonna, is rarer than desire. We want your mind. We want to know what keeps you awake at night, not what keeps the tabloids alive. Real love doesn’t measure itself in record sales or magazine covers. It doesn’t use you for perpetual commerce. It endures.”
Madonna laughed softly—bitter at first, then almost fragile.
Madonna:“Real love. Do you know how long it’s been since anyone even said that to me without an angle?”
Joe sat beside her now, not close enough to intrude, just close enough to be heard.
Yugo Joe:“Maybe that’s why you’ve been waiting. For someone who sees the woman, not the myth. You don’t have to perform here. Not for me. Not for him. Just… for yourself.”
The room grew quiet. Outside, the city buzzed like a machine feeding on itself. Inside, the air was still, charged with something she had almost forgotten existed—hope, stripped bare of contracts, commerce, and sycophants.
And for the first time in years, Madonna allowed herself to imagine that love—real love—might not be a fairy tale after all.
